


Phantoms

by Missy



Category: Archer (Cartoon)
Genre: Absent Parents, Bittersweet, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Fatherhood, First Meetings, Gen, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:29:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5514005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Archer doesn't remember his father.  But sometimes he has these little flashes - little memories - of a man and a meeting in a fancy restaurant.</p><p>Oh, and Woodhouse was there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantoms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ishafel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishafel/gifts).



Archer remembers….

…Well, no, he doesn’t actually remember, or when he tries to he bangs into a big blank wall of nothingness and that just makes his hangovers all the worse. There are flashes of pain, and extremely rare flashes of happiness - and suddenly bam, there he is, twenty years old and a superspy, killing and screwing his way across the world with the finest scotch tickling the back of his tongue.

But sometimes, sometimes he closes his eyes and sees a face.

It’s a surprisingly kind one. His childhood didn’t hold many of those – the only person who really tolerated him was Woodhouse, and he’d tested that tether by yanking as hard as he could on it, just to see if the old man would follow, just to see if the loyalty between them would shatter. But this face showed a level of caring that he’d known from only one other man.

He couldn’t have been any older than three at the time. He was sitting alone in some kind of old fashioned soda fountain, the kind Woodhouse thought was an appropriate place to take a child but generally bored the stuffing out of his young charge. He was wearing an itchy church suit, with a mac on his head and a chocolate sundae sitting in his tiny grip. That was what had claimed the majority of his attention when the man entered, chasing the footfall of a jingling bell.

He had a thick mustache, shot through with grey streaks. His suit was beautifully cut even though it was mustard in shade, and his shoes had been polished before his arrival. His nails were gleaming, brightly treated, and his smile was very tentative. He held out a wrapped package and told Archer that this was for him; he’d brought a gift.

Next to him, Woodhouse was speaking – no matter how hard Archer tries to remember what was being said he could never understand what the conversation was about. This was, perhaps, why he still dismissed nearly everything the butler suggested; he remembered the old harsh tone of recrimination and concentrated hard on the wrapping. 

Under the balloon-strewn paper there was a stuffed alligator, one that was bigger than Archer’s small hands. He squeezed the stuffed figure with gentle curiosity; It squeaked and he dropped it with some alarm.

He remembered what Woodhouse said then. “Must you scare the child?”

He protested that he wasn’t scared, just surprised. With interest he’d examined the soft teeth within the animal’s mouth as the man inquired how Archer was doing at school.

“He has A-levels in gym. Everything else lacks a bit – you know how the lady of the house is. I’ve been trying to bring him up right, but he..."

“A-levels? Are we in Britain all of a sudden?”

There was a long-suffering sigh from Woodhouse. “We might as well be, for all the effort you’ve shown him.”

“Come now, my good man. You know how it is. And you know the way Malory wants it to be..:”

“Yes, unfortunately.” He took a strong draught from his beer. “Master Archer, show the man your etchings.”

Archer had no idea what Woodhouse was asking of him until the lightbulb moment struck. He reached into his backpack, emblazoned with Batman’s face, and pulled out a handful of drawings he’d created at his kindergarten class. The man took in the pictures with a sense of melancholy amusement – each drawing was lovingly patted and studied before it was rested in a pil safe from sundae spills and clumsy fingers. “You’re growing into a cracking artist,” he observes. 

“Thank you, sir,” says the child quietly, kicking his feet and staring into space.

“More and more like your mother every day,” says the strange throughtfully. “I don’t suppose Mallory even knows we’re here.”

“She’s aware, sir. There’s not much she can do to stop you from claiming your parental rights if you see fit to.”

“I can’t do that. You know why I can’t. It’s too dangerous for the boy, and doubly so for Malory.”

“Even after all she’s put you through you still care for her.”

“I doubt I’ll ever stop trying.”

“It’s like water torture then, in’it? Having what you want at your fingertips but you can’t touch it or it’ll wilt.”

“Speaking from experience, mater?”

“You know I do.” The man studied Archer closely again, and the boy started kicking the underside of the table. “So, do you think he has a future?” 

“I think he has potential,” Woodhouse admitted. “Heaven knows that with Mallory he’s got a fighting chance. But I don’t imagine he’ll lead a normal life, no matter where the boy ends up.”

The man nodded thoughtfully. “Take care of him for me, Woodsy. I know you’re the only one who’d know how.”

The man’s jaw firmed, and Woodhouse nodded. “He is truly a special, splendid child.”

“Shut up and get me another sundae,” Archer demanded beside him.

Woodhouse laughed. “You see? A regular chip off the ol’ bean.”

“He’ll need that attitude to survive. It’s the only thing that got me out of Switzerland intact.” He ruffled Archer’s hair, ignoring the child’s wince. “I’ll see you around sometime, kid. Promise you’ll be good for your mother? For Woodhouse?”

The child nodded, played with the tooth foam again. There was nothing he could do for the man. And the man seemed to recognize that as he tipped his hat.

There was the jingle of a bell, the scent of good cologne, and he was gone, leaving Archer with stupid non-sundae-buying-more-of-Woodhouse.

It’s not a wound he pokes often. Archer doesn’t really think of it if he gets older, busier, even has a daughter of his own. As an adult, fully grown and alone in his own world, there’s no ROOM for the stuffed alligator buying man with the fedora and the well-tailored suit. But still the child – now a man-child – will try to remember his face and go blank. 

Why can’t he remember his eyes?

He’d be satisfied just to remember something that small.

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently bittersweet Archer fic wanted to happen this year. Your prompt about the green alligator made me wonder how much Archer really remembers about being a kid - and how much Woodhouse went through to protect him. H


End file.
